


Alien Steel

by treezoob



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018), Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, I'll update the tags as I go, M/M, Martial Arts, but its fine, i accidentally deleted this entire fic, im fine, robofucker to the extreme, we're fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24296125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treezoob/pseuds/treezoob
Summary: What if Hordak was a necron from Warhammer: 40,000Starts around the end of Season 1
Relationships: Entrapta/Hordak (She-Ra)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who are the metal legions, uncountable in their numbers, incalculable in their intellect, unmeasurable in their strength? Where does Hordak fit in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phaeron: Think Pharaoh, the ruler of a necron dynasty  
> Overlord: Ruler of multiple planets in a dynasty  
> Lord: Ruler of a single planet in a dynasty  
> Cryptek: Necron scholar, master of the physical universe and technology.  
> Dolmen Gate: A necron passageway into the dimension of magic. Not safe for necrons but its the most efficient way to get around  
> Warp: dimension of magic, souls and thought. Weaponized against the necrons by the Old Ones.  
> Let me know if I missed any!!!

The necrons are a proud race. The fought against the creators of magic and won. They are also cursed race. In their struggle against the Old Ones, they sold their souls to the Star Gods in exchange for the immortality they so craved. In return, their souls were devoured, and their consciousness placed in shells of necrodermis, a material beyond reckoning.

Marshaling their limitless knowledge of the material universe against the warpcraft of the Old Ones, the galaxy burned. Fearing their demise, the ageless Old Ones created warrior races to fight on their behalf. They failed.

When the Old Ones were defeated, the necrons turned against their Star God masters. They shattered them into shards of unimaginable power, imprisoning them as power sources or abominable war machines.

In the time of peace and turmoil after the wars against the gods, the Silent King, the unifier of the necron race suffered guilt. It was he who thrust his people, then called necrontyr, into the fires of biotransference. It was he who trusted the word of the Star Gods. The blame for his people’s plight rested squarely on his necrodermis shoulders.

In penance, the Silent King traveled to the void between stars. But before he left, he commanded his endless metal legions to sleep, and so they did.

Now, humanity has awoken and spread and died and now rises anew. With it, the warrior races of the Old Ones fight to reclaim what is theirs. And underneath their feet the Tomb Worlds of the necron dynasties slowly wake, heralding the return of the Silent King.

Within each dynasty are distinct social strata that mirror their feudal origins. Though the necrontyr suffered early deaths under their cruel suns, and waged war against each other before they were united, there were still peons, scholars and lords.

Now, in metal bodies, the lower classes retain not even the slightest shreds of sentience. They are robots. Unthinking. Unfeeling. Proud warriors are little improved. Perhaps they carry with them the battle shouts of their companies or retain just a bit more sentience. Still, there is little difference between them and the common necron soldier.

Honor guards, lords, scholars, however. They retain much. Yet even as they speak with eloquence or remember with lucidity, they are more cursed than those they command. Not all necrons awoke from their slumber. Those that did suffer greatly. Some lost the ability to form new memories. Others succumb to base instincts.

The most common illness is an inability to escape the past.

* * * * * * * * *

When Hordak stepped through the Dolmen Gate, ordered as he was to die for his Phaeron, he did not feel regret. He did not feel sorrow. He did not feel. Hordak only marched.

When the Gate failed to spit him out on the front lines on Tamar, only then did he allow himself to remember.

Hordak remembered sorrow. But he remembered duty first. So he marched, nonexistent lungs straining to breathe in an alien atmosphere.


	2. Malignant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hordak remembers his rise to power.

Lord Hordak was not his title. It was removed by his Phaeron so thoroughly that he suffered a fatal error the first time a Scorpioni referred to him as such. In his own mind, Hordak was Hordak. Nothing more, and there really wasn’t anything less. Crippled as he was, he was forced to rely on the assistance of organics to begin his empire. He came to them as a horror. A metal being taller than anyone they had ever seen before. Hide impervious to even the most well-forged sword, the most well-sharpened tail. A mind faster than the entirety of their scholars put together. Hordak revolutionized Scorpioni society, bringing to it such technological marvels as electricity and water purification. In return, he was offered a place in their court.

“My Sheikh, your population grows quickly. The oasis is becoming strained.” Hordak gestured to the red projection coming from his eyes, and turned towards the Scorpioni leader. “There are no claims on the rest of the Black Desert beyond insignificant orbit tribes.”

The old man, Sheikh Scorpus, pinched his beard with his massive, scarred claws. Averting his eyes from the inhuman that shared his court, he muttered under his breath, “Brightmoon will be too close. Their armies are huge. Their queen won’t tolerate my people on their borders.”

Hordak heard him clearly. Trying to suppress his rage, the necron repeated his gesture, expanding the model to a bird’s eye view of the surrounding lands. A thick line separated the black blob of the Scorpioni’s homeland with the lush plains of Brightmoon. The impenetrable Whispering Woods, an uncrossable barrier to organic and necron alike. Hordak had journeyed there once. The woods greeted him with a familiar burn in his circuits. “Warpcraft,” cursed Hordak, “The magics at Brightmoon’s disposal will prevent them from ever laying eyes on us. It is a miracle that you and them have established diplomatic relations in the first place.

Scorpus slouched in his sofa, the weight of his years pressing him into the cushions. He sighed before waving dismissively. “Hordak, we cannot settle the desert itself. Our water cannot reach there. Our people will be hunted by Brightmoon. Leave the matter for today. I want to see my children.”

Hordak wished he could disagree. If this pathetic, backwards, barren planet had any semblance of technology, terraforming the desert could be a task overseen by children. If it was up to him, he reasoned, the Whispering Woods would be burned, and the Scorpioni tribes would overrun Brightmoon. He would be glad to duel that queen himself. The necron turned to glare down at the elderly Sheikh who was busy with an attendant. To be subservient to a fellow necron is just. It is how it should be. But this? Subservience to a nearly dead sack of meat and shell? It is a disgrace. It would be less shameful to die a true death than to endure this. Hordak turned away and stalked out of the throne room, his necrodermis feet cracking the beautiful and ancient tile. Attendants and guards tried to ignore him as his steps, punctuated by the crack of ceramics neared the palace library. Most were ignored. Hordak had no use for them. No time for their greetings. No spare energy for their pitiful attempts at political subterfuge. However, one guard, marked as a Royal Protector by the lapis inlay on their claws was worth the energy to catch. Veneta shuddered as she felt the footsteps near her. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Hordak addressed her directly.

“Veneta.” His voice was toneless, emotionless.

“Ye-Yes, Lord Hordak?” She did not turn around. She did not present her weapon. All she could do was keep from shaking.

“Bring me to the Shaykhah.”

“Yes Lord. Please, this way.”

The Shaykhah were to be the future queens of the Black Desert. Beautiful and radiant, they were the symbols of everything the tribes held dear. Pincera was with child and, with the urging of her wife Arthoda, had allowed Hordak to oversee her health. This was a mutually beneficial arrangement that was enjoyed by no one, least of all Pincera. Veneta knew this, of course. The entire castle did, as well as most of the surrounding peasants. No one enjoyed company with Hordak. Most suspected he did not enjoy company either. So, for the Shaykhah to request his daily presence was definitely a surprise.

If the Oasis was the jewel of the Black Desert, then the royal palace was the jewel of the Oasis. Towering onion domes, completely covered in a layer of gold leaf threw shade on ponds and artificial waterfalls that supplied cold water to underground boilers that would push steam and water into kitchens and baths. Marble paths inlaid with lapis lazuli, emerald and yet more gold circled fruit gardens and statues. Certain paths held unusual gems. Stunning black crystals that became crimson at certain times of the day, garnets marked the quickest routes to the royal quarters and the throne room. To disrespect this path would mean immediate execution, performed by any who witnessed it. Hordak was careful to place his weight on the more solid marble blocks, unable to properly modulate his footsteps. Cursing himself, he noticed that the guard had been talking to him as they walked.

“So. Um. I know that the Shaykhah asked for you to be their doctor and all, but how much do you actually know about, like, us? Oh-my-gosh I didn’t mean to insult you, I meant that, like, you’re all metal and stuff, so how would you know about not-metal people?” When Veneta paused to take a breath, the first one in quite a while, Hordak decided to answer. This surprised both of them.

“I…have the ability to see and remember more.” Hordak paused momentarily to simplify his jargon before continuing. “When I look through Shaykhah Pincera to see the child, I am able to compare it with drawings your scholars have. You are correct in your assessment, however. I know very little of your kind.”

Veneta frowned and began to say something, but cut herself off. “Haven’t you lived in the Oasis for, like, a hundred years? Have you ever talked to anyone about our lives?”

Hordak searched his memories. “I have. I was taught your customs upon my arrival at the behest of the Sheikh.”

Veneta shook her head and looked over her shoulder at the necron. “Someday you’re gonna have to learn that there’s more to people than what the books say.”

Hordak was slammed back to reality with the sudden opening of his Sanctum doors. His eyes flashed green as he attempted to scrub the persistent hallucination from his vision. Soon towering marble pillars were replaced with rusted metal beams. Jewel-encrusted walkways with steel catwalks. Veneta, long-dead Veneta, had the decency to bow to him before she disappeared. Rising from his throne with a growl that was recorded from a great Sand Lion decades ago, Hordak greeted his visitor.

“Force Captain Catra. Why have you disturbed my Sanctum?”


	3. Rotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Brightmoon is fought. Hordak observes from his Sanctum.

Catra cleared her throat, trying to find the voice she had lost when Hordak addressed her. The magicat didn’t like looking at her lord. For one, he was taller than her. Way, way taller than her. But it was more than that. He wasn’t just tall. Scorpia was tall and Catra had no problems with her. It was that he was tall in the wrong way. His body didn’t match his limbs. His arms were long, ending in longer fingers that ended in points. His waist, if you could call it that, looked more like the exposed vertebrae Catra had seen in her Princess Anatomy class. Everything about him seemed stretched and thin, but it was so, so heavy. Her ears picked up the metallic groan as the floor settled under his weight every time he shifted in his seat. But that’s the thing! That was the only noise! There was no scraping of metal on metal when he moved! No creaking, no hissing, nothing! He was too quiet, too heavy, too tall. Catra’s fur bristled and she ran a nervous hand through it.

“We are ready to march on Brightmoon, my lord.” Catra bowed low. “The Whispering Woods are frozen.”

She flinched as the world turns red. Hordak gazed at her, casting Catra in crimson light. “March.”

“Will you not be joining us, my Lord?”

Hordak looked away and Catra breathed a silent sigh of relief. “No, Force Captain. This is your battle to wage. I am…curious to see its results.” The necron paused. Behind the Sanctum doors, Scorpia clamped a pincer over Entrapta’s mouth and shut her own. “Do not disappoint me. You are dismissed.”

* * * * * * * * *

The battle, for Hordak, was a taste of the life – the unlife – he had before Etheria. Connected as he was through the radios and computers, he felt Entrapta’s robots and his tanks move, fire and die in droves. He felt a battalion of batteries update their capacities in unison. He heard the song of plasma fire sing in his circuits. Hordak almost felt like he was back under his Phaeron. Back commanding his soldiers on a thousand thousand worlds. And then, he was.

The pests had arranged snipers around his landing sight. Hordak almost laughed in the airless void. Pathetic. His deathmarks were ready to engage in counterfire. It was his mercy that allowed the organic snipers the first shot. They missed, of course. Hordak sensed the increase in temperature and the rapid increase in movement several miles in the negative X direction. Moving only slightly slower than the bullet, Hordak raised his hand and waited. A second later, the round appeared in his fingers, still red hot from the barrel. As he caught the round, a deathmark assassin confirmed their own kill. The offending organic, the disgusting pest who dared to raise a hand against Lord Hordak of the Horde Dynasty had been put down, their nervous system leaking from their orifices.

And so, his armies advanced. Necrodermis trampling flesh into dust. Gauss reports silent in the airless void of space. Flensed flesh worn as victory cloaks. Hordak saw it all. He saw the all-consuming bloodlust of his soldiers. His vehicles. Every mind under his control keened and chafed against the bit, slavering in algorithms of desire. They craved the flesh that had been so cruelly robbed from them millennia ago. He saw through the eyes of a soldier so overcome that he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, only to burrow headfirst into the corpse of the organic he had just decapitated.

The Flayer virus. A curse cast with the dying breath of an ancient star god. It ran rampant in the Horde Dynasty. It reduced sentient, Lords and soldiers alike into shambling, crawling beasts no better than the organics they flensed. Hordak sensed its corruption within himself. There was nothing to be done. He would serve Horde Prime as he always had, whether it be from the throne of an Annihilation Barge or on his hands and knees.

Slowly, time turned viscous. Dense. His vision clouded. His sensors filled with noise. “Is this the plague? Are these to be my final thoughts?” Hordak screamed, deaf-mute. From the void, the green eyes of Prime stared down at him and Hordak felt himself go rigid.

He awoke to see the casualties of Catra’s strike against Brightmoon and the Moonstone. He sensed through the sequential opening and closing of the Fright Zone’s many doors that his force captains had returned. “Your assault on Brightmoon was a failure, Force Captain.”

Catra remembered another reason why she didn’t like Hordak. He always seemed to know where they were. She had asked Entrapta to take a look at the Force Captain badges but the purple-haired princess just shrugged. “Just metal? There’s no tech in these things. Though it would be a good idea to put your communicators inside them! I should tell--!” After cutting Entrapta off with a ferocious warning about talking to Lord Hordak about anything ever, Catra left the scientist’s cluttered room, unsatisfied.

Climbing the steps to Hordak’s throne, flanked by her fellow force captain Scorpia and prisoner-turned-engineer Entrapta, Catra’s mind raced to find an answer that wouldn’t get her killed. When the Super Pal Trio reached the throne platform, Entrapta beat her to the punch.

“It wasn’t a failure! I got tons of new data to look through! Catra’s assault gave me the boost I needed to understand a lot of the First One’s tech I have in storage!”

Catra didn’t risk a glare backwards at Entrapta, but it was a close thing. “I was so close to bringing Brightoom to the Horde. Besides, on our way to Brightmoon, Entrapta’s bots basically uprooted the Whispering Woods. We could launch another attack any day. They’re defenseless!”

Hordak did not deign to respond immediately. He rose to his feet and approached the trio, hands behind his back, chest proud. “Your assessment of this invasion of Brightmoon is…accurate. I expect better results in the future. Nothing less from my second-in-command. Dismissed.”

Hordak watched them leave, his gaze lingering on their backs and bathing the Sanctum doors red. Though it was hard to tell, the necron was staring at the long-haired female specifically. “First One’s tech,” he mused silently, “A technological conduit for warpcraft. It seems that granting this organic access to the Black Garnet was strategically sound. A tame psyker is a resource indeed, but magitech is another.”


	4. Sinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another aspect of Hordak's defect is discussed. Entrapta is there, if you squint.

Hordak did not sleep. Necrons are tireless. Or so he told himself, before collapsing upon his throne, his red eyes flickering, casting bloody rays against the sanctum doors opposite his throne. He felt his consciousness strain past his cognitive limiters and perform a diagnostic test. Its results were unsurprising and disheartening. His central reactor – the magnificently eldritch energy source that allowed him to walk without food and fight without rest was slowly solidifying. It had progressed ever since he had been vomited on this forsaken planet.

He flexed his hands, watching the delay from thought to motion. He was getting slower. Soon he would grind to a halt, like the primitive combustion engines the natives used. If, he noted grimly, if he did not melt into slag first. Solidification of a reactor core is an exothermic process, and necrodermis is a fantastic capacitor for many forms of energy. Including heat.

He allowed himself six minutes of rest. He dulled his sensors and decoupled himself from reality. In Hordak’s pathetic mimicry of sleep, dreams often visited him, though it would be more apt to call them nightmares.

He was mortal once. And before he was mortal, he was young. Young and healthy. Hordak stood proud at the head of his personal legion and bowed before his rival nemesor. He hefted his warscythe, slashing dramatically. Its entropic edge produced a thunderclap that blew a cloud of dust at his opponent. A challenge. His opponent smirked at him and flipped his own scythe to point the butt forward. The dishonorable edge. A great insult.

Hordak did not dream of the blood. He did not dream of the dishonorable edge, nor it piercing through his thigh. He did not dream of his riposte and the quiet wetness of a chest suddenly opened to the elements. Hordak dreamed of the doctor. He remembered her detached eyes. Most of all, he remembered reading his diagnosis.

“Cancer of the spine. Cancer of the extensor digiti muscles. Cancer of the throat. Cancer of the skin. Cancer of the eyes. Cancer of the nose. Cancer of the heart. Cancer of the stomach. Cancer of the jaw…”

To be a necrontyr is to die slow. But to live a necron is to surpass death

Hordak awoke with the grim words of his Phaeron on his metal lips and felt his phantom muscles shudder. His internal chronometer informed him that it was well past dawn. He growled, casting off the weakness that the night brought him and rose. When the necron Lord of the Fright Zone rose from his throne and felt his feet sink deeper into the dents he had made before his throne, he was struck with an unusual thought.

It shook him so deeply that he paused for ten whole seconds before continuing to Shadow Weaver’s office. The name of that emotion would only come to him hours later, while he was neck deep in conflicting casualty reports his spies had brought him. He felt hate. Hordak savored the memory of feeling before its full significance registered. “Why is it that I am who I hate,” questioned the necron, almost pleading with his memory to be clearer. But he did not plead. He was Hordak of the Horde.

Entrapta, squirreled away in the vaults of the sanctum shivered. Her recorder’s readout pulsed with a red amplitude as it registered Hordak’s voice. “Software Log 30. Tuning my audio processing software to Hordak’s voice worked! Update 29.14 beta was a success and will be integrated into my primary recorder as soon as I get back to my workbench.” A swathe of purple hair muffled her voice to preemptively stop it from drowning out anything else the robot might say.

Unfortunately for the engineer, Hordak lapsed into silence. Stalking up the stairs to his thrown, he mentally assembled a list of concerns. First was the psyker.

“The damned witch is a recurring issue. Her ability to interface with the Black Garnet was a considerable investment, though necessary to cement her loyalty. The purple organic will take her place and the psyker removed. Her magics are now unnecessary and her presence is detrimental to Catra’s performance.”

Hordak’s eyes flickered. He was uncertain if he could even deal with Shadow Weaver. He had seen psykers return from the dead with more speed than a Lord with a Resurrection Orb, and yet if she remained, he was certain she would rise back to power through Catra. Regardless, there were other things to consider.

“Brightmoon has not yet launched a counterattack after Catra’s invasion through the Whispering Woods. We must establish fortifications to prevent that possibility. This will also expedite future raids.”

Something fell behind him.

Hordak slowly turned his head to find a canoptek scarab, marked with his personal sigil mind you, about halfway through eating a wrench. Chittering impishly, the construct took flight and landed on Hordak’s shoulders.

“Rascal. Present today’s report.”

The scarab snapped its pincers together and projected a red hologram that blazed through a week’s worth of surveillance footage. Much of it ended with bitten ankles. A few with photoreceptors wet with dishwater.

Hordak slid his metal fingers across the scarab’s carapace, petting nonexistant hair with strange tenderness. Those who assaulted Imp were to be punished. After Imp had made up for his misbehavior. The necron glared pointedly at the metal thing on his shoulder.

With a startling quiet, the scarab began to transform. Its legs folded into its thorax and its wings elongated into a regal, if miniature cape. Its pincers retracted to form fangs and its six eyes melded into two. In moments, the beetle had turned into a miniature Hordak. Imp jumped off Hordak’s shoulder and ran, clacking its pincers gleefully.

Hordak did not give chase. Reprimanding Imp was a waste of time and energy, and he did little to deserve it anyway. Watching him go, most likely to the recycling center for more snacks, Hordak again noticed a heat signature far in the vents above him.

He paid her no mind. She did not interfere with his work. She could not, even if she tried. Etherian technology had one single advantage over necron: the ability to interface with magic. Beyond that? Hordak answered himself aloud. “There is nothing for spies to gain here.” If he could smile, he would have. Veneta was wrong. All the knowledge he needed to interact with Etherians was contained in books. Etherians, it seemed to Hordak, responded well to vagueness and melodrama.

Entrapta cringed and shuffled backwards in her vent, babbling into her recorder as she fled. “Observation Log 52: I mean there’s no way he could have heard me or seen me? This vent used to be used for plasma transport. It’s thermally shielded and reinforced three times over. And why did he call me a spy? Did he call me a spy? I mean, I didn’t see anyone else, but it is possible that there was another intruder that I didn’t see. Well,” the princess paused for breath,” it seems that further observation will have to be put…on hold. For now!”

Hordak did not see the familiar heat signature in the vents for quite some time after that. When he considered it, weeks later, he felt that strong emotion again. Lurking around the degraded edges of his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to rewrite the intro after some feedback. Entrapdak content to come, so stay tuned.


	5. Dessicating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about Imp.  
> I'm sorry, I know I promised Entrapdak, but this chapter was getting huge, so I made the Entrapta and Hordak stuff its own chapter!

Not behind the locked doors of the Sanctum. Not in his private quarters, sequestered deep under the throne room, reinforced against pressures that would crush any living creature. Not even in the silence of his dreams would Hordak dare accept that he felt.

He loathed the thought. Feared it. He ran from it in the twisted, pruned and wilting circuits of his memories. He threw up memories, shored up habits and yet it still bit at his heels. The Flayer Virus. The great and abhorrent delusion. His chiding took on the tone of desperation, the cadence of tears.

He could not be flesh he could not feel flesh there was no blood no air no sweat no tears only metal. Only. Metal.

And yet, there was more than metal.

Entrapta’s absence had reminded him of that. Unwillingly. An unwelcome intrusion.

“How fitting.”

* * * * * * * * *

He remembered the new stream of data that heralded his. . . his creations arrival upon this blasted planet. That memory consumed him. Hordak dreamt.

The necrodermis construct floated lazily, rotating in three axes in the canoptek chamber. A totally airless, perfect vacuum. It was the result of years of labor. Years of setbacks. Once, it nearly toppled the foundations of Sheikh Scorpus’ palace.

The reverse engineering of his own creation was even costlier. In amassing the ingredients for the shifting metal in the chamber, Hordak had given up much. When he had plumbed his mind for the quantum attunement of his necrodermis, he gave up the memory of taste. After forcing himself to remember the feeling of a fully energized reactor core, he was bedridden for six months. It took him two to remember how to speak. Four to remember how to walk.

Hordak considered naming the unmade construct Veneta. In tribute. He snarled at the thought. The dead need no tribute. Not in the presence of immortality. He would name his creation something unique. Something telling.

And yet, Hordak was wrong. He did not name it.

The creation, was constructed piecemeal in the stretches of peacetime. Whenever Hordak had the chance to rest for weeks and months, not days. When Brightmoon was occupied with flooding in Salineas or droughts in Plumeria. It took him decades. The Scorpioni kingdom had bequeathed itself to him long before his creation was to see the light of day.

Hordak burned memories in search of his former glory. He would rebuild his armies. Endless legions of necrodermis boots would trample the fleshlings into their putrid dirt. The sigil of the Horde Dynasty would blaze proud. Hordak would return to his rightful place. Hordak would return home.

It was not so. The construct was meant to be a simple scarab. A drone, armed with weak entropic pincers and antigravitational propulsion. Useless alone, save for reconnaissance. The data stream that occupied a small portion of Hordaks mind stubbornly refused to submit to such a lowly destiny.

It rebelled against what Hordak ordained and instead communed with his desires. It took on his own shape under the cloak of scarab wings. It would form a power core, miniscule compared to Hordak’s but much too large for a scarab. The data stream was even so recalcitrant as to form its own circuitry.

“It thinks! My creation! It thinks! I am a genius!”

Hordak’s speech was echoed from loudspeakers and datapads. Hordak felt happy. So happy that he was without restraint. He let his mind spread along the networks of the Fright Zone.

“I will let my subjects know. There must be celebration,” reasoned Hordak to himself. “There is no harm.”

He felt so happy. So happy, in fact, that he forgot he wasn’t supposed to feel at all.

The Fright Zone would later learn to rue that day of celebration. They were soon introduced, in one way or another, to Hordak’s creation. Imp, as it had decided to call itself, after stealing a book of common folklore, would become the bane of the Fright Zone citizenry. Bright green photoreceptors, as they were supposed to be, would hide behind every corner.

And yet, for all his good qualities, it took a long time for Hordak to learn to love Imp. At first, when the Lord of the Fright Zone looked at the little construct, his failures stared back at him. His circuits were malformed. It was incapable of sonic modulation just like the scarab the construct was originally supposed to be. It was too small. And yet, simultaneously, it was too perfect. Its energy core glowed green. Not red like Hordak’s defect. Its necrodermis unmarred, uncorroded.

Hordak found nothing to love in Imp. It was not a surveillance scarab. It was not a soldier. It was not even, for all its perfections, a replacement body for Hordak.

He had considered that once. He found that idea distasteful. It filled his circuits with a kind of familiar coldness. Like that of the Great Sleep, but closer. Harsher. It was a green feeling. A perfect kind of discomfort.

Entrapta was the quiet witness to the growth of Hordak and Imp’s relationship. From her hidden vantage point in the vents, she would sit and observe, quietly munching on snacks and muttering into her recorder as quiet as she could. It was part of her routine.

Wake up. Clean up yesterday’s mess. Deal with Catra. Plan the day with Emily. Observe Hordak. Sort findings. Work on upgrading Horde tech. Watch a movie or play board games with Scorpia. Sometimes with Catra too. Go to sleep.

As much as she hated to admit it to herself, watching Hordak did little to expedite her official progress. Watching his unnervingly sleek metallic form traverse the sanctum was a personal pleasure. She noted that his routine was so unvarying that his footsteps fit into deep indents in the steel floor of the sanctum. She also noted, with a giggle, that the only changing variables of her subject were the type of clutter on his work bench and his conversations with Imp.

“Observation Log 8: I know it hasn’t been a statistically significant length of time yet, but so far, my hypothesis hasn’t failed me! Hordak literally steps in the same place every day! I wonder if he has to repair the floors every so often. I wonder how thick they are. I wish I could get closer and look at them up close. They would have to be significantly thicker than the rest of the steel plating that floors the Fright Zone, as those would have been perforated on Day Four of observation. Oh look, the little robot’s here! Now what did Emily say his name was? Right, it’s Imp!”

Clambering, spiderlike, from one vent to the next, crossing through wires and ducking under support beams, Entrapta got herself closer to the bickering duo. Hordak was bent over his workbench, paying no heed to the little construct. Imp, on the other hand, had its arms on its hips and was chittering aggressively.

“Imp. Why. Are. You. Here.”

Imp’s eyes flashed red as he projected a hologram directly into Hordak’s eyes. With a roar, Hordak swatted backwards, missing Imp by a large margin.

“Wonder if he did that on purpose. I’ve never seen such inaccurate movements from Hordak before.”

Imp stood his ground and tugged on Hordak’s metal cloak. Sighing loudly, the taller robot turned around and stared down at the smaller one.

“Yes? What is it?”

In lieu of a response, Imp redirected his hologram onto the table, to which Hordak slowly turned his gaze.

The sound was noisy. Full of static. Entrapta saw Hordak’s sharp fingers dig into the table, deforming it. The picture was clear though, and soon Hordak released the table from his grip and folded his arms behind his back.

Scorpia and Catra were walking down a hallway together. The view was upside down, from behind and above. Entrapta adjusted her position accordingly and balanced upside down, hair gripping the wall and a metal retaining beam.

A Horde soldier passed them and tripped, the papers in their hands flying everywhere. Catra paused momentarily but kept walking. Scorpia bent down immediately, assisting the soldier. The hologram then shifted to Catra’s back. The magicat continued walking for a moment, then stopped and turned.

Entrapta wasn’t sure what the expression on Catra’s face meant, but the scientist smiled when she saw her bend down and help Scorpia and the clumsy soldier. Just as Scorpia began to overenthusiastically assist the soldier to their feet, Hordak slashed his hand through the hologram.

Imp turned it off and screeched at Hordak who only sighed again.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Now, get up on the table. I want to adjust your vibration sensors. It is . . . unseemly for my spy to be unable to record sound.”

Imp tried to jump up on the table, but floundered, sharp front claws stuck in the metal while his feet flailed, unable to find purchase. Silently, Hordak placed his hand under Imp’s feet and gently lifted him to the table.


	6. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entrapta and Hordak interact. Things get hot and heavy. 
> 
> ~~In a literal sense.~~

“I know Emily, you don’t have to push me! I remember, okay! But I’m not a spy! Hordak knows that! I need more data. No, it’s not related to the weapons but still, data is data. Now let me go.”

Entrapta pocketed her recorder and snacks and undid the clips that held the vent grill in place. Lifting herself into it with her hair, she crawled from her room to the maze of vents that crisscrossed the ceiling of Hordak’s sanctum.

Hordak was laboring over something that the princess could feel from her perch. The static prickled her skin and the sharp smell of ozone drifted from the exposed arcs of electricity. It seemed to her that he was working more erratically than usual. More haphazardly.

“Observation Log 53. Hordak seems different today. I don’t see any of his usual tools. I don’t see Imp either. I don’t even see any computers on. Maybe he’s building from memory?”

Hordak’s growl and the creek of a metal lever being depressed shook the vent that Entrapta was sitting on, causing her to wrap her hair around it more tightly. Emily beeped quietly and aggressively from inside the vent. Entrapta shushed the robot and looked back down at Hordak.

The necron was inspecting a ring of metal the size of Entrapta’s torso. It reflected the green lightning perfectly, throwing light across the sanctum. Entrapta looked back at Hordak and almost fell off the vent.

“His. . .His arm. He removed the metal from his arm to make that circle. The armor is gone. It looks like. . . human bones! Radius and ulna, I think. Why does he need his own metal for that? Can’t he make it somewhere? He made Imp, didn’t he?”

Before the scientist could add anything to her recording, the metal disk sparked. Hordak stepped back as the lightning, spitting and arcing from jagged black obelisks arranged in a hexagon, slammed into the necrodermis. The disk rose up sharply, vibrating so hard, Entrapta was sure it would shatter.

In its empty center, the lightning seemed to coalesce into a green orb that expanded, hissing and sparking when it reached the outer diameter of the ring. Entrapta and Hordak waited with baited breath as the green orb of energy seemed to slow in its tremors. The lightning also slowed, shifting from violent bursts to a steady, pulsing flow of energy.

The disk was ten feet in the air when the orb of energy it was containing ripped free. In a shockwave of force, it slammed Entrapta off of her perch and forced Hordak to his knees. Whipping around the vent, Entrapta barely managed to cling on with her hair, neatly looping herself back inside the vent where a distraught Emily inspected her for damage.

Hordak staggered to his feet before immediately slamming down to one knee again. He slammed his hand into the steel floor, puncturing it. He tried to rise again, holding an arm over his core and stumbled over to his work bench.

Entrapta could see the red glow of heat shine through the back of Hordak’s cape, lighting up the individual metal links as if they were aflame. Before long, her face began to feel hot and despite Emily’s insistence, she peeked further out of the vent.

Hordak was furious. The workbench was completely destroyed. Parts of the surface were dented with imprints of Hordak’s claws and thrown halfway across the room. A metal leg was embedded in the wall along with deep claw marks. As his core solidified inside him, Hordak was the picture of hellish rage.

Curls of steel melted off his claws. The sanctum floor melted to slag under his feet as he yelled and wrought havoc in his sanctum. Flaring his cape, it left heat shimmers around him, nearly obscuring Hordak from Entrapta entirely. She bit her lip and let the recorder take in the scene.

“Something inside him is heating up. His armor is in excess of 1540 degrees. I don’t understand, it was just one failure? The metal disk is still intact. The lightning-generators are still intact. He’s being unreasonable.”

The purple-haired princess squinted at the necron wiped away the sweat forming on her brow.

“The whole sanctum is getting hotter. I can see some of the metal next to him beginning to exhibit signs of plasticity, but the disk, the generators and Hordak are totally fine. What is he made of?!”

Hordak’s head jerked upwards, searching the ceiling frantically for the intruder. Entrapta yelped and slid back into the vent.

“Gosh I’m glad for my gloves, I can see my sweat evaporate when it hits the vent! I really hope he didn’t see me.” Entrapta frowned. That wasn’t right. She did want Hordak to see her. What she didn’t want was for Hordak to tell her to go away. Entrapta hated when people did that.

* * * * * * * * *

When Entrapta peaked her head out again, the Sanctum’s environmental control system had kicked on. While the room was no longer unbearably hot, it still looked like a bomb had gone off. Hordak had torn off and thrown nearly every fixture in the room, save for the remains of the experiment and his throne. Where he was now, Entrapta didn’t know.

“Come on Emily, let’s go investigate!”

The scientist swaddled her robot in her hair and slowly spidered down from her vent. She slowly sneaked from the side of the Sanctum inward, muttering to her recorder about the evidence of Hordak’s rampage. When she neared the obelisks, Entrapta let out a small gasp.

“Emily! These look like First One’s tech! But they’re like nothing I’ve ever seen! This looks like the raw material for data crystals, but without any writing on them! This is amazing!”

Entrapta danced around the wreckage, pulling Emily into a circle with her hair. She beamed until her gaze fell on the still-smoldering necrodermis ring.

“Emily, hand me the orange crystal please. Let’s get to work.”

Emily beeped in assent and removed a triangular First One’s crystal the size of Entrapta’s palm, along with a large welding torch, a spool of solder and a tube of flux. Entrapta lowered her welding mask and began affixing the crystal to the obelisk.

Soon, a web of silver traces encircled the black obelisk, each forking off of a different word on the crystal. Words of power and resistance connected with the power system embedded in the floor. Words of control and communication Entrapta soldered to Hordak’s operating lever and the sensor array embedded in the throne. And that was just one!

“Five more to go. Emily, hand me a magnifying glass please.” Entrapta paused and switched to a new track on her recorder. “Upgrade Log 2974 or was it 73? No no, 74. Add magnification lenses to my welding mask to speed delicate circuit work.”

Entrapta worked until her hands chafed inside her gloves. She worked until Emily began to beep insistently, nudging her with a robotic leg.

“Emily I can’t leave now. I only have one generator left.” The princess paused as a shadow fell over her. Her welding conveniently drowned out the sound of a quiet growl behind her.

“Hello. You’re blocking my light. If you could just step aside…”

“Get. Out!”


	7. Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experiment Attempt #2  
> Entrapta learns more about Hordak, but not in the usual way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS BEEN A MONTH OF WRITING WOOHOO
> 
> This chapter is for  
> 1\. cocoa who is the reason i stayed up until 4 am writing this  
> 2\. everyone who wants entrapdak (me and the other 3 of you who read this)

“Well, just a sec. I’m almost finished!”

Hordak, for the first time in the last decade, was stunned. He felt his circuitry actually heat up a fraction of a degree trying to process the gall of the organic before him. He straitened, changing tactics. If getting in the face of this fleshling wouldn’t work, then towering over it would.

“There will be dire consequences for this—”

“I noticed several inefficiencies in your arc-based power delivery system. Especially considering the fact that you are already operating in suboptimal conditions. I mean, a direct connection would offer much less resistance than air. Also, if I’m right, and I usually am, it was a power spike that caused your focusing torus to lose its magnetic field. Certain materials lose their magnetism at higher temperatures and reckless overcharging tends to raise temperatures.”

“Flagrant…breach of conduct…” Hordak trailed off as he noticed the regular distribution of traces and First One’s crystals soldered onto his obelisks.

“How…how exactly did you correct my…inefficiencies?”

“Oh that? It’s simple! Here, I’ll show you!” Entrapta shoved the whisper-beeping Emily away and kneeled back down to a crystal.

“All I did was reroute your existing control and power delivery systems through these data crystals. Here, this word means ‘resist,’ and this one means ‘force,’ and these traces connect to your lever over there,” She gestured over Hordak’s shoulder with a purple lock. Hordak tilted his head forward to avoid the hair, inadvertently bringing his macabre countenance closer to the princess’.

Entrapta reflexively lowered her welding mask. “Uhm. Close. Anyway, the ‘force’ trace goes to the tip here. I have insufficient data to guarantee smoother power delivery, but existing data does point towards it.”

Hordak folded his arms behind his back, his cape shifting with the sound of metal quietly shifting past itself. Like a falling sand dune, or a nest of snakes.

Emily had nearly succeeded in prying Entrapta from her impromptu lecture when Imp flew into the room and landed on the spherical robot, sending her skittering backwards. Entrapta was about to continue her explanation when Hordak pivoted and stalked towards the unblemished torus in the center of the trial area.

It lay in a melted groove that it had carved into the steel floor of the sanctum. Entrapta watched, open mouthed under her mask, as Hordak’s claws effortlessly cut through the steel and lifted the torus and held it aloft.

“Are you going to run it again? You should! Then I can see if my circuitry was wired correctly. I mean, there’s an 85% chance that it is, and in that case, I really want to see the results!”

Hordak’s head slowly rotated past his shoulder to face Entrapta while his body still faced forward. The whole action was silent, a calculated intimidation tactic that had sent many weak-willed emissaries screaming to their guest quarters.

“If your work results in a greater failure than the previous, you will take the focusing torus’ place, fleshling.”

Entrapta was made of sterner stuff.

“It won’t! I’m 85% sure. Maybe 86. Here, let me get the lever for you.”

Hordak watched as Entrapta hefted the massive steel pole that was the lever and reseated it, using her hair as stilts. He notes her strength as unusual for her proportions. He resumes turning his head, so it rotates until he is facing the torus again, which he held aloft.

“Ready?” A creaking noise informed Hordak that Entrapta had successfully locked the lever into the mechanism beneath the floor.

“Yes, fleshling.”

Energy bubbled at the tips of the obelisks, droplets of unvaporized flux spontaneously combusting as the solder came into contact with the high heat. Hordak barely caught the moment that the slowly expanding green orbs deformed into beams, like raindrops falling in reverse, and slammed into the torus. He stepped back hastily, slamming a heel into the sanctum floor hard enough to almost trap himself.

The torus spun as the emerald energy flowed into it. Violently. It wreathed the torus like a garland, forming vines, and to Entrapta’s surprise, almost reminiscent of DNA. These double helixes grew thicker and thicker until their overlaps encompassed the entire torus.

The resulting viridian sphere was too bright to look at, even with Entrapta’s welding mask. That would be upgrade 2975, she noted silently, squinting at the mounting energy that sent static running through her hair.

As the lord and princess watched enraptured, the obelisk beams slowly thinned. They reformed into teardrops, then orbs and winked out existence. The focus torus was still swaddled in energy, but something about it was different.

It wasn’t a pure green anymore. Entrapta frowned under her mask. It looked almost purple. She got up and almost flipped up her mask to ask Hordak about it when she paused.

“Wait, why do you need this anyway? It’s an absolutely massive power source! You could probably hook up the entire Fright Zone electrical grid to the torus and you’d still be running at over 99% capacity!”

The engineer looked around the room, taking off her welding mask now that the luminance had returned to tolerable parameters. Spotting Imp, Entrapta opened her mouth when Imp projected something in front of her.

It was, as far as Entrapta could tell, a sort of notepad. If a notepad saw a hypersphere and decided that there was room for improvement. Formulas and glyphs in a language she had never seen before extended into the distance and overlapped each other, forming connections and exclusions right before her eyes.

“Wait a minute…I recognize these formulas. You’re building a portal, aren’t you?”

Hordak growled in shock, but before he could interject, Entrapta had swaddled imp in a cocoon of hair and dragged the miniscule construct over to the Lord of the Fright Zone, gesturing excitedly at the different equations.

“I am familiar with the concept, but I am also familiar with the limitations of Etherian technology. It’s never been done before. No one’s even tried it! It’s totally theoretical! But why are _you_ trying it? Obviously, your technology was developed independently of the rest of Etheria, but the Fright Zone hasn’t been around longer than a century, and the Scorpioni books you have in the library—”

Hordak hissed. “You intruded upon my private study?!”

“Catra never told me it was private! And knowledge should be publicized anyway! Anyway—they don’t say anything about your technology!”

The necron’s cape rippled around him, slicing into the sanctum floor. Entrapta wondered how often the steel floor here was replaced. And why Hordak decided to use steel and not anything more durable. His eyes grew brighter as a deep-seated pride took hold of Hordak’s circuits.

“It is unsurprising that a primitive planet has primitive science. More so, it is unsurprising that a primitive planet has a primitive understanding of the speed of progress. Pathetic.”

Entrapta lifted herself up on her hair, freeing Imp and raising herself to Hordak’s eye level in the process. “Hey! I got your energy source working! So tell me everything!”

Nose-to-nose, Hordak registered the indignation and excitement in the princess’ demand. “Portals are not only non-theoretical, but they are also exceedingly simple. I require experimental data on this planet’s interaction with instantaneous transport before my…plans can progress.”

“Wait, you’re going to open a portal? And there’s even more?” Entrapta flapped her hands with unbridled joy. “Can I help you?!”

Hordak was again taken by surprise. He assessed the situation silently, as he stalked around the engineer, simultaneously taking in her torrent of words. “An unexpected and unacceptable delay. Typical of my condition. I should be used to this. But I am not. And this organic is…unexpectedly capable. More than I previously imagined. Her magitech expertise could prove extremely useful.” Hordak avoided checking the status of his core solidification.

“You called this planet primitive. Are there…more? Is that why you need a portal?”

Hordak straightened and looked down at the small organic in front of him. For the second time in over sixty million years, Hordak felt respect for the living.

“Yes.”


	8. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hordak deals with some loose ends. Entrapta gets to watch.

The door to the Sanctum slid open quietly, the quiet hiss of the ball bearings silenced by black smoke, barely visible to Hordak’s mechanical vision. It resembled a sort of static, really. A particularly antagonistic static that left afterimages on his ocular sensors on every frequency save for one. Magic.

“Lord Hordak. I trust this. . . mortal is not distracting you.”

Witchling. Warplady. Noise. Filth of filth. And yet she had her uses, as long as she was monitored appropriately. Shadow Weaver approached the necron, coils of magic dancing across the metal floor of the sanctum. She took care to stop at a respectful distance, curtailing her aura. Still, Hordak stared down at her with distaste that required no facial expression to convey.

“Decidedly not. The same cannot be said for you, Warplady.”

Shadow Weaver scoffed inaudibly. Magic uses went by many names, as did their art, but it was only Hordak that called it the Warp. Perhaps some latent superstition from wherever he came from.

“It appears we both experiencing problems them. I have been locked out of the Black Garnet’s containment chamber. Why?”

“You no longer require access to the Black Garnet. Entrapta has replaced you for some time.”

The darkness surrounding Shadow Weaver begins to boil, sending dark vapors into the black heights of the Sanctum.

“Replaced? After all I’ve done for you? For the Horde?” The sorceress could barely control her tone, forcing her hands from clenching into fists in the folds of her robe.

“Your administrative skills and awareness of Etherian magics remain unparalleled among my subjects. Research of the Black Garnet does not require your skillset.”

Hordak bent at the waist, peering through Shadow Weaver’s mask only to be met with impenetrable static. Entrapta stayed quiet behind him, fidgeting with the worn finger pads of her gloves, gaze darting back and forth between the two. Hordak straightened sharply and began turning back to Entrapta when his vision filled with furious static, stinging his circuits. For a moment, Hordak almost thought he saw a laughing avian, but the artifact was gone before he could inspect it.

Shadow Weaver’s rage sent arcs of electricity crackling into the floor. Her hand was outstretched, wreathed in her black magic. Even with her shielding, the protruding metal of Hordak’s cheek cut deep into her hand. The Sanctum was silent then, save for the retort of lightning and the quiet drip of blood.

Entrapta was the first to speak. “Are you alright? You’re bleeding, I mean of course not! I have some bandages right- “

The engineer faltered as the heat radiating from Hordak’s body suddenly became unbearable. She took a step back, then another. Entrapta lowered her welding mask.

Hordak did not feel the empty metal of the Sanctum’s often-repaired floor beneath him. No. He felt the soft sand of the royal court. Not of the Black Desert. This was the ghostly white sand of a world so old and familiar, he had forgotten its name.

He was a youth, so lithe and strong. Not a trace of cancer in his supple limbs. His opponent, Derket, was a fellow lord-to-be and the underdog in today’s match. Hordak raised his left leg, knee bent and toes pointing down. Staring his foe in the eyes, Hordak raised his fists to his temples and slowly straightened his knee, pointing his toes to the starry sky above.

How he missed the stars.

His opponent accepted his challenge as tradition dictated. Derket mimicked Hordak’s motion with his own left leg, but let it slam down into the sand after raising it to the stars, kicking up dust with a dull thud.

Horde Prime nodded and folded his arms behind his back, a gesture Hordak and Derket mimicked. The use of arms in combat was dishonorable. From the sun came the tumor and from the tumor the dishonorable death. Arms were the higher limbs, and thus avoided.

Hordak sought to strike the first blow, lowering his left leg and snapping it forward. Derket leapt back, dancing on the balls of his feet before arcing his right leg low, aiming his instep at Hordak’s knee. Hordak smirked and adjusted his left leg’s refold, intercepting Derket’s instep with his shin. The sharp check elicited a hiss of pain from Hordak’s opponent who again had to step back to avoid Hordak’s snapping kick.

They fought in silence, kicking up sand with powerful pivots and thunderous low kicks. Horde Prime watched with detached interest. These duels were all the same. One combatant would leave with a broken shin, or perhaps a dislocated hip. The other would bow to him and so on.

Mid-blink, Prime’s assessment proved incorrect. As Hordak chambered his knee into his stomach in preparation for a devastating straight heel strike into Derket’s overextended leg, his opponent stepped into his stance and slammed his knee against Hordak’s, sending the more experienced fighter to the ground.

Prime’s eyes narrowed as Derket’s smile widened. Hordak attempted to rise without using his hands, only for Derket to plant the ball of his foot on his back and kick him down again. Hordak cursed quietly and skittered back, dirtying his hands on the white sand as he braced himself on the ground to get up safely.

He immediately launched into a counterattack. Switching his left foot back and pivoting with his right, his body uncoiled like a wound spring as Hordak slammed his shin into Derket’s unguarded right side.

Prime smiled at the sound of ribs breaking. Derket’s smile melted as he gasped, arms unclasped and wrapped around his sides. Hordak bowed briskly and began to turn to face Prime when he saw Derket move out of the corner of his eye.

Hordak wasn’t fast enough to dodge the injured fighter’s slap. It rang in his ears for an eternity.

Prime’s hands tightened into fists behind his back. A slap is beyond the disrespect of an arm strike. It carries not the intent to disable. It carries no association with death. Only with pure dishonor. Those who are slapped are given the sun on their assailant’s open palm. It is tantamount to wishing one a nightless life and a tombless death.

Hordak’s metal talons slashed empty air as Shadow Weaver leapt backwards, propelled by her spells. Midflight, she traced a circle and sent it flying towards the necron lord, who screamed in blind rage and swatted the spell out of the air.

The plastic of Entrapta’s recorder cracked as the maelstrom of sound tore through the Sanctum. Entrapta’s awed ramblings were nearly lost to the wind as the layers of the device were shattered.

“He’s able to modulate the density and structure of his physical makeup to form weaponry! He has claws!”

As he stood to face his opponent, Hordak was bathed in crimson light, the heat of his core solidifying before Entrapta’s very eyes – cloaking him in a fiery armor that belied the horrific rage hidden by his emotionless death mask of a face. The violet flames as Shadow Weaver’s spell detonated harmlessly, drowned by the inferno.

“YOU DARE? FILTHY FLESHLING! ABHORRENT WITCH! YOU DARE LAY HANDS ON THE LORD OF THE HORDE DYNASTY? YOU SULLY THE IMMORTAL PERFECTION OF THE NECRONTYR WITH YOUR MAGICS”

Hordak’s screams slammed into Shadow Weaver with the force of an avalanche, cracking her mask and whipping her aura back like a dying candle. Desperation sped her hands and magic circles of shielding and redirection sprang from her fingers.

To Entrapta, he seemed an avatar of an ancient war god far beyond the eons of Etherian time. Beautiful and terrifying.

Shadow Weaver quailed before his wrath, walls of sorcery shattering at the very call of his challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give me fight scene advice!   
> Sorry for the late update!


End file.
